


The Prince's Shadow

by Elfy (elfowlgirl)



Category: Thrilling Intent (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Aromantic Character, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfowlgirl/pseuds/Elfy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would not be strange for a prince to have a secret - what would be strange would be to so easily stumble upon it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Any chapters that need them will have chapter warnings. Updates Mon/Thurs until finished. Thanks to Woof for more or less coming up with the idea and fleshing it out with me!

The boy laid on his stomach, chin resting in both hands as he stared, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his face. Lush, silk sheets spread out in bronze and silver beneath him. A canopy of the same colors reached above, blossoming from the wooden pillars of the four-poster. The room almost seemed to shine as the dawn’s sunlight peered into the room as it ventured over the horizon, welcoming the room’s lone resident even before he had been woken by the man who now stood before him.

He seemed to consider the man with a scrutinous eye, though the man's brilliant purple-and-silver uniform was pristine, and his weapons - as per usual - were at the ready. The boy, meanwhile, had simple monotone pajamas in the same violet shade, and from a single glance between the two it was easy to tell exactly who was in charge.

“You know,” the man said, thick eyebrows pressed together and blue-green eyes locked on the boy. “If we didn’t go through this stare-down every morning, you wouldn’t have to rush through getting dressed.”

“If _you_ got here earlier, we’d have more time.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “If I got here earlier, you’d have less time to sleep.”

“And so the cycle continues.” The boy rolled over, further ruffling the unkempt sheets. He fiddled with his long blond hair for a moment as it settled under him, spreading it out to each side as he now lay on his back. He continued to stare at the man, this time expectantly.

“The Princess should be arriving within the next hour or so, and you’ll be meeting with her until lunch. Then a break until the supper with her men.” He gestured to the door, more impatiently this time. “Now, if you don’t get started soon, you’ll have to miss breakfast.”

“Ugh, fine.” He rolled again, nearly falling off the bed before easily catching himself and landing lightly on the plush carpet. “What’s for breakfast?” Before the man had the chance to answer, the boy ducked into the closet.

The man adjusted his stance, and spoke loud enough that he was sure his voice could be heard - clearly - from within the depths of the closet. “The usual, though we do have some of the Princess’ supplies arriving with her, if you’d like to try something special for lunch.”

“I don’t know _how_ their shrimp tastes so good compared to ours but damn would I love to know why,” the blond mumbled as he slid his sash over his head and reached for a strip of cloth, tying it around his waist with practiced ease. “I’m looking forward to dinner the most. You know breakfast foods aren’t my thing. Hardly have time to eat, anyway.”

“This would go faster if you had someone dress you in the morning, Zal,” the man remarked.

The boy rolled his eyes. “I like having some autonomy in my life, _Captain_. You of all people should know that.”

“Of course I do.” He made a noise of irritation as Zal stepped from the closet, looking him sharply up and down. “Your hair will have to be done at breakfast. If you’d only keep it short it wouldn’t - “

“Who needs a court advisor when you can have the captain of the guard do that and so much more?” Zal grinned up at him. With a lazy wave of his hand, he gestured onward. “After you, Horaven.”

Horaven’s expression seemed torn between a smile and a glare as he stepped forward, pushing the double doors open just wide enough to let the two of them through. As his charge followed close behind him, he signaled to one guard, who promptly took off down the hall. “Considering how the last advisor turned out, I’d rather run double-duty than have to deal with that kind of mess again.”

“Speaking of which, finally got more room in your schedule for another lesson?” Zal’s smile widened as he adjusted his gloves. “Maybe have the other captain split the work. Or even bring him along for it. Dinner and a show.”

Horaven stared ahead, marching along indifferently, but nevertheless matching his stride to the smaller man alongside. “I’d rather not.”

Together the duo made quite a pair, Horaven towering over Zal by a considerable margin. Zal’s robes, despite shining the same shades of purple and silver as his companion’s armor, managed to somehow stand out more strikingly. The only thing to contrast their colors was the red stone that hung around the boy’s neck on a silver pendant. He absentmindedly ran a gloved hand along it before he realized what he was doing and stopped with a scowl.

It was only a short walk down the hall and traversing a spiraling set of stairs before they emerged into the last corridor of their journey. The Captain shifted into a more formal gait as they approached the next closed pair of wooden doors, flanked by twin royal guards. Their armor seemed a dulled version of Horaven’s, and thinner compared to his large build.

The guards saluted sharply, then stepped in with near-perfect synchronicity and grasped the doors’ golden handles. The pulled them open, and together, Horaven and Zal entered the lavishly furnished space.

“You’re going to eat now,” the blond remarked as he wandered his way to his place at the head of the table. Horaven looked momentarily as though he was going to object, only for his younger companion to continue: “We both know you’re not going to have a break for the rest of the day. Eat.”

The Captain frowned, and yet dutifully marched over and slid into the chair beside his charge.

A few others sat at various places around the table, though it was largely unpopulated - Zal’s eyes drifted to the chefs on the afternoon shift fervently discussing something at the other end, and then the pair of gossiping maids sitting beside them. A servant stepped up and placed a silver tray before him, drawing the lid away to reveal his still-smoking breakfast.

As something caught out of the corner of Zal’s vision, he abruptly turned sideways in his seat. His legs draped over one arm of the chair, and his back rested against the other. “Morning, Moren.”

“Morning, Zal.” Almost immediately Moren knelt beside him, brush in his right hand and comb in his left. A dozen other articles hung from his belt - keys, scissors, bags, and more besides - but otherwise he was dressed rather primly. He began running the brush through Zal’s long, blond hair. There were a few sharp tugs before the brush began to glide easily through it and Moren saw it fit to talk. “Big day, huh.”

“Mhm.” With his right hand, Zal speared a piece of chicken. “You hear a lot of things. Before I meet with her later, what do you know about… the Princess?”

“The Princess, eh?” Zal could hear the smile in Moren’s tone. “What is there to know? Eyes of gold, hair of silver, kinder than her father and more beautiful than her mother. The group she’s bringing is quite a cast.”

“I could say it sounds fun, but that’s not even an earnest lie.”

Moren chuckled quietly. “Same could be said about you, Zal. Kinder than the King…”

“That’s hardly an accomplishment.” He ran his free hand over the pendant again. “Everyone was simultaneously kinder and more of an ass than the King, and I am no different.” He popped another piece of chicken into his mouth as his hairdresser, very carefully, began to braid his hair. “Hair of straw, eyes of burnt grass.”

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. And it’s a lovely grass.” Another minute of silence, then Moren stood. He tossed the end of the braid over Zal’s shoulder. “There, done. You’re going to have to do it yourself for the next while, though. Having breakfast with the Princess’ company, I hear.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” He turned to sit properly in the chair, placing his head on his spare hand as he looked up at Moren. “Maybe come by and do it before breakfast instead?”

“I swear, I’m the only one in the kingdom who can keep up with that rat’s nest.” Moren smiled at Zal as he pulled a face. “Depends how early. I can’t exactly chase you down the hall doing it.”

“So you _say_.”

“Speaking of which,” Horaven stood up beside him, plate barely half-cleared. “We have to get going. She’ll be arriving any minute.”

“Great.” As Zal rose from his seat, the entire room fell into a sudden silence. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, if only for a moment, before they resumed their worried whispering. Horaven once more lead the way, and together the two exited the dining hall.

Their journey was silent as they traversed the castle’s corridors. The Captain’s shoulders were stiff, posture rigid, while Zal simply kept his gaze ahead as though he did not notice. His own stride somehow matched Horaven’s, moving beside him with calm composure.

The guests were already waiting as they entered the main hall, servants bustling to and fro behind them as they gathered up supplies from outside and carried them about. Together a simple trio of characters waited in the center of the room, gazes finally shifting to Zal as he approached.

The two groups stood-face-to-face, Horaven patiently waiting on Zal’s left as he bowed shortly before the woman. He wasted no time in introducing himself. “Greetings, Your Highness. I am Prince Zalvetta of Onorhant. Welcome to the kingdom.”

The Princess dressed simply, especially compared to her companions - a vest over viridian shirt, a pair of pants, and nearly knee-high _hiking boots,_ of all things. True to Moren’s word, her hair was so platinum a blonde it was almost white, and her eyes shone with the distinct golden sheen of her bloodline. She mirrored the Prince, voice holding the thinnest accent. “Likewise, Your Highness. I am Princess Aesling, of Meathe. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She gestured to her right, and the man spoke up. The visor was lifted from his face, no doubt a sign of respect. His attire gave away his rank - brown, green and gold, a style shaped similar to Horaven’s - but his age was clear in his eyes. Strangely, he seemed no older than Zal. “I’m Gregor Hartway, captain of the guard.”

Then the blond on her left, bright blue eyes and in simple suit and silver jewelry; “Markus Velafi, court advisor.”

“Horaven,” Zal raised his head some. “You two may go discuss security for our guests’ stay, then check on the supplies. And supper.”

“Yessir.” As Horaven gestured Gregor aside, a second woman seemed to materialize from behind him. Stepping into the gap he had left, she nodded her head slightly but otherwise did not appear keen to speak. A pointed hat covered most of her nearly-black hair, skin almost the same darkened tone as the Meathian Captain. Her robes, satchel and hat were all various shades of blue, some spots worn by almost-but-not-quite washed-out stains.

“This is Inien, she serves as the court…” Aesling trailed off, seeming as though she were suppressing a laugh. “ _Witch._ ”

Inien tilted her head, mouth pressed into a hard line and simply glared.

“So, Princess.” Zal grinned slightly and gestured back the way he and the Captain had come with one hand. “Let’s drop the formalities and go get this trade arrangement over with.”

After a small look of surprise, she grinned back, a tenseness in her shoulders Zal hadn’t noticed before quickly fading. “Sure.” She took a deep breath, and in that instant seemed to collect herself. “Call me Ashe, by the way.”

“Alright, Ashe.” The Prince signaled to one servant, who came bustling over. “If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re staying here, let me know. Let this be a wonderful holiday for you all in Onorhant.”

He smiled and, though a spark of trickery seemed to hide just beneath the surface, somehow, all in all, it was as sincere as any other.


	2. Steel

“Now,” Zal gestured to the map set up before them. The two had claimed a faraway sitting room, snacks and drinks of every variety set out on the table between him and Ashe, and a map of their lands at the ready for reference. “There seem to be three or four options. The main issue here is picking one and laying it out. Do you have any in mind?”

“We came,” Ashe gestured to the map with the thin pointer stick the Prince had given her, “with permission to cut through Kuravia’s border. It’s by far the shortest route, but most prone to bandits without proper precautions and outright war should it go badly. The Kuravians aren’t exactly the most…  _ trusting  _ bunch.” Zal nodded understandingly. She moved the stick to point at the nearby water, off to the west. “Meathians are quite skilled at sea travel, but it’s a long journey - especially in bad weather. The most direct route would be to send goods by horse, take them around in a ship, and then continue again by horse. A bit long for both sides, but it’ll be done easily.”

“Mhm.” He offered a gloved hand and she passed him the stick. He ran the tip along the small eastern border between their two nations. “There are only two means of travel here, bordered by the mountains as it is. There’s a path across the mountains, a long and perilous journey that horses can’t traverse. Secondly, there’s a pass  _ between _ the mountains, plagued with rockslides and broken up by rivers that would require bridges built at best to cross. The ocean seems our best bet.” He frowned and traced a line across the water. “Would it be better for a short trip by sea, or to dock at established ports? Onorhant doesn’t exactly have many.”

“While Meathe might have  _ too _ many, a departure of goods - royal or otherwise - would be easily noticed.” She nodded at the map. “Royal trading posts established near the sea and the border, with guards and horses to man them. No unnecessary travel, and low likelihood of bandits or pirates whichever way we choose.”

“I like it.” Zal leaned back in his chair. “Now, all that’s left is placement and allocation of funds, supplies, staff…” He placed one hand over his face and groaned. “Ugh, I need a nap.”

“It’s only been, what, fifteen minutes?” Ashe grinned at him. “Tired already?”

“Always.” He smiled, but did not remove his hand. “Besides, we have a good two weeks to go over all this. Why not take a break? I can show you and your companions - wherever they may have ended up - around the castle.”

“Gregor’ll be up for that, whenever he’s done with…” She trailed off, raising an eyebrow before realizing the word would not come. “What’s your advisor’s name?”

“That was the Captain. Horaven.”

“Who’s your advisor, then?”

“Don’t have one.” Zal, stood, finally and stretched some. “Last one left shortly after the King died, and any we’ve tried to find since have been disasters, assassins, or both.” He offered her his hand.

She took it, though his “assistance” didn’t seem to amount to much, considering his size. The Prince strode to the door and knocked once, sharply, before the guards on the other side each pulled it open. “Gregor went with Horaven, so they’re probably near the training grounds.” He placed his index finger to his lips, seemingly considering something before gesturing down the hall. “And if not, the next place he’d be is by the kitchen.”

He took off down the hall, though he kept a simple pace that Ashe found no trouble keeping up with. They passed many servants, maids, and other workers bustling around the castle, who didn’t appear to notice - let alone move aside for - the royal pair. She glanced at the walls as they walked, dozens of paintings of scenery from around the kingdom hanging on the walls, and carpet stretching endlessly beneath their feet.

The journey carried on in surprising silence as the Prince lead them back out the front of the castle. The sun seemed to dare not peek through the clouds, and Zal scanned the yard as if looking for something. He shrugged, and kept walking.

Together, they made their way around the castle’s edge. They passed horses, tied to wagons as if the drivers had simply picked up and left mid-travel. The stables seemed deserted, the racks of weapons were left in near disarray - and, grouped at the center of the yard, was an enormous, cheering, crowd of soldiers.

“That’s the training ground,” Zal commented offhandedly as the duo approached. Together they moved into the crowd, ducking and diving between armor-clad guards as best they could. Once again, no one seemed to quite notice him or the Princess until they made their way to the front - even then, a sharp glare from the Prince silenced them before they dared make a sound.

Two very familiar figures stood face-to-face in the ring, weapons at the ready as an uneasy tenseness seemed to hang between them. Gregor had some sort of polearm in his hands and in Horaven’s, a pair of enormous blades.

“Oh, not this again,” Ashe rolled her eyes. At the blond’s raised eyebrow, she amended: “Gregor loves what he does. Probably too much - sparring matches are a daily occurrence. The fights do tend to occasionally get a bit out of hand.”

One guard leapt the fence to stand between the to-be fighters, whispering something to each that was easily lost in the growing roar of the crowd. The Prince’s eyebrows sat low as he watched them, expression unreadable. “The second one of them’s about to get hurt we step in and stop it.”

“You want to  _ watch? _ ”

“Of course.” The seriousness was broken at once as Zal grinned at her. “The only time I get to see Horaven fight is when  _ I  _ fight him, and he goes easy on me.”

“What makes you think he won’t go easy now?” She leaned on the wooden fence, and the guard raised one hand into the air.

Though the Prince’s voice should’ve been drowned out by the deafening uproar, somehow it came clear, a devious twinkle in his eyes. “Then he’ll learn.”

The guard’s arm fell, and at once there was movement. Gregor dove forward, blade slicing cleanly through the air, and was immediately parried with one of the swords, Horaven taking the moment to attack with the other. Gregor ducked beneath and followed up with a second swipe, only to be parried once more. Try as they might, each strike made was dodged - if barely - and each blow blocked. The crowd’s enthusiasm only seemed to grow as the effort of maintaining the fight slowly began to wear on each fighter.

“That got boring faster than I expected it to.” Seconds after the words slipped from the Prince’s lips, a mistimed blow set Gregor off his balance. Taking advantage, Horaven spun and slammed his shoulder into Gregor’s side, knocking him easily to the ground.

The second Horaven’s blade hovered near Gregor’s throat Ashe had already jumped the fence, the once-encouraging din falling quickly into worried whispers. “Gregor.”

“Hi, Ashe.”

Horaven pulled his sword away as Gregor and Ashe stared at each other. Zal, having followed the Princess, now stood beside her, and regarded the two with another unreadable look.

“Horaven.”

“Zal.”

“That only took what, twenty minutes?”

The Captain shrugged. “He wanted to ‘see what I got’. I thought it best we get it out of the way before commencing with anything else.” He sheathed each of his blades, slinging both of them over his back. “And now I will go check on the supplies, and on supper.  _ Get back to work! _ ” His booming voice echoed across the field and the guards, already on edge, scattered like mice to all corners of the wind.

The Princess seemed as though she was about to say something else as she held out one hand to her friend, but instead her shoulders slouched as she asked, “Would you like to go on a tour of the castle with us?”

“I was supposed to plan some things with Horaven, but…” As he was pulled from the ground, Gregor looked around, though Horaven had since disappeared. “I guess we can talk over dinner. Sure, I’d love to go with you guys.”

“Great.” Zal put his chin in his hand for a moment. “We can start with the courtyard and go from there. If we time it right, we’ll be near the kitchens by lunch.”


	3. Midnight

The sun had since set, and now only the slightest sliver of moonlight cast light upon the castle’s open courtyard. The few torches set in their sconces burned low, but Gregor Hartway dared not move from his station to relight them quite yet - so long as he could still see, he had a duty to attend to.

To his credit, it was peaceful there and he was tired. The long journey, the castle tour, the delicious feast - a mixture of Meathian foods and Onorhian preparation - they’d had at supper… Occasionally his eyes would drift, his shoulders would slouch, and he feared once or twice falling asleep at his post. A glass of water would do him good.

 _Focus, Gregor._ Carefully, he pulled his bow from his back and gripped it tightly in his left hand, running calloused fingers along the bowstring with his right. It was oddly comforting, to have it in his grasp. He stood there for a few minutes, simply holding his bow and watching the courtyard.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, there was movement.

So brief, so sudden he almost thought he imagined it - he moved to rub the sleep from his eyes, and yet the image remained so perfectly in his memory. There had been a shadow, almost unseen against the creeping darkness, up by the tower window. The Prince’s tower, he recognized; whether the shadow had gone in or out he couldn’t tell.

It was no stray squirrel or bird, he was sure. It was too large - that had most definitely been a person.

Quietly, he nocked an arrow.

There was another flicker, and before he knew it the arrow had slipped from his fingers, flying cleanly through the air - and striking true. He already had one hand on another before he got the chance to register what he had hit. The shadow now stood, one arm pinned by the sleeve to the castle wall. He took a few steps forward as the shadow pulled at the arrow.

“Who are you?” he said, doing his best to stand tall and sound commanding as he tugged the bowstring back once more. “And what are you doing here?”

The shadow turned its head to look at him. It was only when the hood of the cloak fell back some that Gregor realized exactly who he had shot and a jolt of panic ran through him.

"I - I'm so sorry, your - ah, er, I was out on - I just - “ He paused, blinked, and narrowed his eyes as the gravity of the situation registered. He leaned closer towards the shadow. “Why are you sneaking around in dark clothing in the dead of night?"

The shadow remained silent and still for a long moment, before lightly shaking his head and, finally, removing the hood.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “if you unpin me from this wall.”

“How do I know you won’t run away?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve seen my face.”

“...Alright.” Gregor reached forward and, with one hand against the wall and the other on the shaft, pulled the arrow from the shadow’s sleeve and the wall.

As the shadow adjusted his cloak, Gregor leaned close once more. His eyes widened. “What do you have on your belt?”

“Alcohol."

His lips pressed into a hard line and his eyebrows lowered. “There’s no alcohol I know of that’s that color - and trust me, Ashe loves her drinks.”

The shadow pointedly kept his gaze away.

“So you sneak out of your room in the dead of night, dressed like that, with a dozen vials of poison on your belt? What, did you invite her here just so you could - “

“It’s a hobby.” The shadow looked up at him, hazel eyes locking with brown. “And before you keep going on with the accusations, I promised I’d tell you, so the truth is…”

A silence followed. He took a breath, seemingly uncertain of what he was even going to say.

“...I’m the Prince’s twin brother.”

Gregor simply stared. “Forgive me for not believing you.”

“It’s _true._ ” The boy frowned and crossed his arms. “He didn't want you to know - he didn't want you to know that he had someone who goes out and, well... One of us stays in his room all day. He deals with court and all that other bullshit and I get to go out and do the fun work. Look, each aristocrat has their favorite weapon, be it language or title or person. What better way to get things done?”

“And you invited the Princess here because - “

“My _brother_ invited the Princess,” he interrupted with a glare, “to negotiate his damn trade agreements. He loves potatoes and lobster and all that other rich Meathian food, what can I say? Besides, how would it look if the Princess of another nation was _murdered_ while she was a guest at the castle?”

The Captain’s expression didn’t change. “So if I were to go up to the tower, you’re saying the Prince will be in his bed, fast asleep?”

The shadow looked up at him suddenly, smile sharp and a devious look in his eyes. “Fight me.”

“I - what?”

“Fight me,” he repeated. “If I win, you can’t tell anybody.”

Gregor did not seem swayed. “And if I win?”

“Then I go back upstairs and you can tell whoever you feel like, though whether they believe you or not…”

The Captain watched the blond for another long moment. “Fight here, in the courtyard? Or the training grounds?”

“Let’s do the training grounds. Less chance of getting caught.” He gestured forward with one hand. “C’mon. Normally I’d take the rooftops but I guess we’ll have to get there the _slow_ way.”

“What should I call you?”

The blond’s mouth twitched. “How… how about an old nickname? ‘Zanthor’.” With that, he disappeared into the castle, shadows enveloping him.

“Alright, _Zanthor._ ” Gregor followed, though as he entered the hall he found his companion had all but disappeared. _And I have to leave my post… I caught one assassin tonight, what’s the chance of there being another?_

Thinking back to the path taken on their earlier tour, he turned right and kept walking. _He might’ve gone off without me, but he was right - I know who he is. He couldn’t avoid me forever. Although he could certainly try..._

He glanced down the hall, eyes still narrow. One hand was resting on the limb of his bow before he knew it, and once more the wood felt oddly comforting. _A guard was supposed to go through here. I would’ve talked with Horaven, but I couldn’t find him after dinner, and then I had watch… Something is definitely off about this._

As he emerged from the castle, he could barely see the same shadow waiting by the training grounds. A few torches had been lit around the field, flames’ light dancing off the Pr - off _Zanthor’s_ brilliant blond hair. Eerie shadows framed his pale face, and the slightest glint of silver seemed to show that he rested one hand on a weapon of some kind.

Gregor stepped aside and made for the nearest weapon rack, scanning through it until his eyes caught a familiar form. Gently he placed his bow and quiver on the ground, then, using both hands, removed his favorite weapon from its place on the very top row.

“How likely is it, exactly, that the King would just _happen_ to have identical twin sons?” he asked as he gave the polearm a gentle swing.

Zanthor, from his place on the field, tossed his own deadly instrument of choice in the air and caught it - a simple, sharpened dagger, shining black and silver and seemingly inset with something like amethyst. He clicked his tongue derisively. “You should do your research, before you come to a foreign land.”

Gregor kept his gaze on his opponent and, weapon in one hand, clambered over the fence. He swung his legs across and dropped himself to the sand below - and the moment his soles hit the ground again, he more _felt_ than _saw_ the force of the blond lunging towards him.

His reflexes kicked in nearly instantly; he narrowly sidestepped the opportunistic double-stab and tightened the grip on his own weapon, swinging it up and around to force his opponent back and away. The suddenness made him sputter, still. “Wh - no fair! No one said start!”

“You enter the ring, you’re signed up for combat.” Zanthor retorted plainly, skidding back to a safe distance on light feet. “All in all, not bad. You’re one of the first to catch up with me.” He paused, arms crossed over his chest and daggers unsheathed as if waiting for Gregor to make a move. His cloak fluttered to the ground behind him. He arched an eyebrow. “What’s with the polearm?”

“It’s a glaive.” Gregor steadied himself, grasping his own weapon firmly and falling into a ready stance. “Good for range and riding horseback. Works well up-close, too, as I’m sure the Prince saw earlier.”

“I’m sure he did.” Zanthor fell upon him once more, face twisting into frustration as the Captain ducked aside with that same minimum precision of movement, the flat side of the glaive slamming full-force into the shadow’s stomach. He tumbled to the ground and into a roll, his own training kicking in as he threw himself to feet and immediately leapt back at his opponent.

Gregor continued to evade the blows, swinging his glaive in wide return strikes - his opponent weaved in and out of the powerful swings. Ducking another swipe of the glaive’s blade, Zanthor paused momentarily before kicking the blunt end of the polearm, now pointed almost directly towards him, as hard as he could manage in an attempt to throw the Captain off his balance, then darted forward with both weapons poised.

Gregor stumbled aside, barely avoiding a dagger clipping his ribs, but the Captain wasn’t going to budge in a hurry. “Why are you so persistent?” he remarked in a tone with a near-twinge of anger to it. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“And then the fight will be over.” Zanthor crouched on the ground, body wracked with each heavy breath. Taking careful aim, he tossed a dagger - it was easily smacked aside by the glaive’s broad edge and landed lazily in the sand.

He took another moment to regard the other man, noticing how Gregor once again patiently fell back into a ready stance, and narrowed his own eyes. “You’re not exactly eager to strike.”

“You’ve got speed and skill, but hardly any stamina.” The Captain stood his ground. “Once you wear out, the fight is over.”

An uneasy silence passed across the field, the two staring each other down. Zanthor took a breath and, once more, struck.

He threw his remaining dagger as he tucked into a roll towards the other, snatching it out of the sand and hurling it after in a single sudden move. Gregor only had enough time to block the first dagger, the second slamming into the side of his helmet with a sharp _clang!_ His ears rang, his sight momentarily blurring as the sound of metal-on-metal seemed to echo endlessly.

A shape appeared before him, details indistinct from the trauma. They whispered something, words barely audible, before pressing one finger to his nose and all but vanishing.

Gregor teetered, then stumbled; he sank down to the ground on one knee, helmeted head in his hand as he waited for the ringing to die. He caught sight of Zanthor’s cloak, clasp glinting in the torches’ dying light as it laid on the ground, since forgotten. Even as the sharp scream of metal faded, his foe’s last words - and the look on his face - echoed through the Captain’s mind.

Cheeks flushed red, hazel eyes piercing, and sweat trailing its way down his forehead; “ _Be glad this isn’t a real battlefield, or you’d be long dead._ ”


	4. Viridian

Gregor Hartway’s head was heavy. Even beneath the cool metal of his armor the world was hot, and his visor only served to hide his eyes as they occasionally drifted shut. Thankfully, the assembly was short and he only had to stay at the Princess’ side for so long. As the various aristocrats filtered out of the meeting room, he subtly tapped on Ashe’s shoulder. She tilted her head up at him, dreariness and boredom not yet faded from her gaze as she reclined in the chair she’d been assigned.

“Do you mind if I take the afternoon off? Busy day yesterday, and I had a late shift last night…” He kept his voice just low enough that he was sure only she could hear him.

“Sure. I’ll see you at dinner?”

He nodded, and slipped out of the crowd. Though he was bedecked in full armor - that clanked occasionally as he walked - no one seemed to pay any attention to a simple guard; even the  _ Captain  _ of the Guard. Gregor looked down the hallway, thinking back once more to their tour the day before, and took off towards the south wall.

_ Before I can sleep, _ he sighed as he walked,  _ I have a couple errands to run. _

He rested one hand on the pack at his belt, mind drifting to the attendants of the meeting. Ashe had expected the Prince to be there - or at least Horaven, an assumption that Gregor had shared. To their mutual surprise, it was instead almost every other nobleman who showed up. They apologized, words dripping with false sincerity, as they recounted that the Prince was busy, that yesterday was a long day, that there were arrangements to be made…

Eventually the hall gave way to the yard, the thinnest beams of sunlight peeking through the ominous overcast settling in. Gradually Gregor made his way down to the western side of the castle, walking along the wall’s edge until he came across exactly who he’d been looking for.

“Inien!”

She jumped, robes and hat visibly shaking as she nearly fell onto the herb she was planting. “Gah! Gregor, what - “

“I’m sorry!” He inched closer, making sure he didn’t step too close to any of the plants scattered about the edge of the garden. “I can come back later, if you’re busy.”

“It’s fine.” Inien steadied herself, then knelt down back by the herb and resumed burying it. “What do you need help with?”

“I need something to help me sleep.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “You never asked for anything like that back home.”

He did his best to shrug nonchalantly. “Yesterday was pretty tiring, and I had a late shift. For whatever reason, I don’t do too well with napping.”

“I see. Thought you might’ve come down on errand for Ashe. The Prince stopped by earlier. One of his guards heard how Ashe introduced me and  _ actually asked if I was a witch _ .” She snorted. “I wish more people would ask that.”

“ _ Are _ you a witch?”

She grinned, the adorable sideways smile that seem to find its way to her face so often, and shook her head. “You don’t count, Gregor.”

“Speaking of which,” he did his best not to react to the unintentional pun as her grin widened, “how’s the bet with Markus going?”

“Miserably. Though I did get away with actually  _ talking _ to the Prince for once. It was hard, but I just kept thinking about the gold slipping out between my fingers…” Inien stood up from beside the plant and stretched for a moment, pointed hat nearly falling off her head as she simultaneously scanned the rows. As she relaxed she took to weaving through the rows with ease before kneeling beside a few herbs and looking them over.

“Glad to see they let you into the garden,” Gregor remarked as he watched her. “Where’s the usual caretaker?”

“On extended leave of absence, apparently. Did a good job of tending the place, but it’s certainly been falling apart while he’s away. Idiot replacements don’t know anything about proper plant care.” She reached into her cloak and drew something from it, then tugged delicately at the herbs and tucked them away. She got back to her feet and, with the same grace as before, made her way over to Gregor.

“Take these to the chefs and ask them to make you poppy tincture. Drink it, and that should do the trick.” Inien placed a small brown bag in his palm.

He beamed, sliding the bag into his pack and taking off for the castle. “Thanks, Inien, you’re the best!”

She smiled and waved. “Damn right I am.”

\---

Gregor emerged from the castle kitchens, remainder of the poppy herb resting in his pack and the tincture’s sharp taste still on his tongue.  _ Knowing Inien, she gave me extra so if I need it again I don’t have to go bother her. Same old, same old. _

Now, a single errand remained before he could go sleep. The biggest problem now at hand was finding the Prince.

_ Should I ask a guard? I’m simply returning something of his, but how did I come across it? Why do I have to deliver it to him specifically? I can’t just go by the Prince’s quarters, that’d look suspicious, and how likely would it be that he’s still there so late in the day? _

As if on cue, Prince Zalvetta rounded the corner.

Horaven stood on his right, easily discernible by his broad shoulders and tall build, looking as professional as ever. On the Prince’s left was a different guard, one Gregor knew he’d seen during his and Horaven’s duel but whose name had long since been lost amidst the chaos of the day.

Gregor stepped forward, reaching with his right hand into his pack as he began to speak. “Uh, Your Highness?”

Zal stopped at once, his pair of guards following suit a half-second later. The look in his eyes as he glanced towards Gregor was unusually piercing, distant and far colder than they had been during the castle tour the day before. “What?”

The Captain pulled the cloak from his pack, meticulously and near-perfectly folded midnight fabric shining in the rays of sunlight as they filtered in from the nearby window. Zal’s expression flickered for an instant, so quickly it was almost like it had never been there to begin with. “I found this on duty last night, and I thought it might be yours?”

Zal took the cloak from his grasp with a gloved hand, turning it over as he inspected it with a watchful eye. After a moment he tucked it close to his chest and nodded to Gregor. “I lost this some time ago. I was wondering where it had ended up. Thank you.”

Behind his visor, Gregor narrowed his eyes. The Prince’s words were stiff, methodical - but almost pointedly so. He knew what Gregor knew, and was evidently unafraid to show it. How that affected what little relationship they had, or even their kingdoms had, was yet to be seen.

“Glad I could be of help.” Gregor awkwardly bowed his head and stepped aside as the three moved past. He could’ve sworn that Horaven turned his head ever so slightly to glance at him, but he couldn’t be sure - soon the trio had rounded another corner, and disappeared further within the castle.


	5. Silver

Gregor’s sleep was uneventful - collapsing the second he removed his armor and his head hit the pillow - as was dinner. Once more the Prince seemed to almost pointedly be avoiding Gregor’s gaze, even as he talked openly with Ashe sitting just before him. Horaven remained stoic as always, and yet something about it was… unsettling. Surely he knew that Gregor knew about Zalvetta? And Zanthor?

That still left a bad taste in Gregor’s mouth.

And yet somehow, after dinner, he found himself volunteering for the night shift. Ashe gave him a glance - half surprise, half confusion - but shrugged her shoulders and departed for the guest rooms with Markus and Inien in tow.

He took his place in the courtyard, the same as the night before. Running one hand along the limb of the bow he carried, quiver at the ready, and staring up by the Prince’s window as thin beams of moonlight peeked through the scattered clouds. Beside him sat his glaive, as if it would somehow bring him peace of mind.

It did not take long for the same flicker of shadow to appear by the tower wall, only to reappear seconds later in the darkened grass. This time, Gregor simply kept his arrow nocked, pointing it at the hidden figure and waiting for them to make a move.

Zanthor pulled his hood away. He took a few steps closer - arms crossed - before looking Gregor up and down with an unamused scowl. “You’re going to keep this up, huh?”

“I don’t trust you.”

The shadow paused for a moment, before a piercing grin grew on his face. He held out one hand to Gregor in something like offering. “Do you want to fight again? How sure are you it won’t end up like last time? I was caught off guard, I’ll admit, but I know your tricks now, _Captain._ ”

“You didn’t realize I was the Captain of the Meathian Guard?” The tension on the bowstring lightened.

Zanthor shrugged. “All your armor looks the same.”

With a deliberate steadiness, Gregor lowered his bow, eyes still locked on the shadow.

“Let’s fight.” Zanthor crept closer, shoulders low and stance casual. “Do we really need to go to the training yard? You’ve got your glaive with you already. What, were you expecting me?”

Perhaps he had been. “You’re so sure of yourself that you won’t get caught here? Or that I won’t go after you if you run away again?”

The shadow drew a dagger from his belt, silver glinting brightly in the moonlight. “It’ll save us time, and you effort. And besides, you’re not going to go barging into the Prince’s room in the dead of night shouting about some mysterious ‘secret twin brother’. I _am_ the secret twin and I know how ridiculous that sounds.”

Despite his uncertainty, Gregor stifled a laugh. “Alright, then. Three, two, one…”

“ _Go!”_ Zanthor shot forward, blades in each hand. As he slid past - Gregor barely managing to dive out of the way - the Captain took notice of his change in style. Rather than simply slashing with wild abandon, Zanthor now followed up with precise jabs. Careful strikes, aiming for the seams of his armor and niches of weakness.

Gregor slammed the side of his glaive into the next incoming blow, wincing at the sound it made but smiling shortly after as his opponent flinched back.

Zanthor moved to shake out his hands, both red and stinging, but barely got the chance as Gregor stabbed at him with his glaive. He seemed to miss by a hair’s breadth each time, like chasing a cloud on a windy day. He stopped, letting his foe continue moving before diving forward at once -

\---

\- and nearly skidding face-first into the nearby pond. Gregor caught himself on one of the stones dotting the surface, and used his glaive to keep himself steady.

Just beneath him, he saw ripples on the water’s surface. An instant later he spun and did his best to block Zanthor’s blow, though one dagger slipped through and bounced harmlessly off his armor. The shadow flipped over him and landed feet-first in the water. He snarled, and clambered out onto a nearby stone, now soaked from his thighs down.

“What is the point of this stupid thing?” he mumbled as Gregor took a defensive stance. “Zeke and his damn - “ He cut himself off with another disgruntled sound.

A heavy wind ran through the garden, rustling the trees and shifting the water around the pair. The air carried a sweet scent on the autumn's breeze, of once-ripe fruit and the dying breaths of flowers. Zanthor adjusted his own posture, then shivered as the wind caught him. He crouched low and took a deep breath, the two staring each other down, before leaping -

\---

\- onto the _chandelier_ like some sort of hero from a story. He stared at Gregor, Gregor stared at him, and the room was filled with silence, save for the creaking of the chandelier’s chains as it swayed so slightly.

“This is a horrible idea,” Zanthor said aloud, still grinning. “Like playing ball near a glass window.”

He dove from the chandelier, the room filled with the sound of tinkling glass as it rocked. Rather than use his weapons, he flung his foot out at the last second, spinning in midair and aiming for Gregor’s head.

As the Captain ducked back, Zanthor’s momentum sent him tumbling forward into the wall,

paintings on the wall rattling uproariously.

Gregor froze, expression quickly shifting into worry beneath his helmet. “So even if my shift is changed, you’re going to keep this up?” He glanced at the wall, glanced at his foe, then checked each doorway for any other visitors to the dining hall. “Someone’s going to come in here and then we’re going to get in trouble!”

“And you catch an assassin or I’m caught sneaking out at night.” Zanthor held back a groan of pain as he got back to his feet. “Landed harder than I thought.”

“Are you -

\---

\- serious?” Gregor held the bowstring back, following his opponent with a tired gaze. “I’m not just going to start shooting at you.”

“Why not? Scared you’ll miss - or run out of arrows?” Zanthor clung to the side of the Prince’s tower, holding onto the windowsill with one hand and armed with his other.

“No, because I don’t want to have to explain to Horaven in the morning why there are arrows embedded in the side of the castle wall.” Still, he did not lower his bow. “But I will fight, if you want to.”

“And if I don’t?” Zanthor tilted his head, still smiling. He dropped to the ground below, landing lightly on the grass. “How about we just talk?”

“Just talk?” The Captain raised an eyebrow.

Zanthor collapsed to the ground, patting the spot beside him with one hand. With the other, he reached beneath his cloak and lay his daggers down beside him, then lowered his hood. “I’m curious, I’m sure you’re curious. Don’t you have _questions?_ ”

Gregor placed his back to the wall and, slowly, sank to the floor. He placed his bow to the ground beside him - still within arm’s reach, but just far enough to be a sign of trust. After a careful moment more of consideration, he removed his helmet. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s go back and forth. I ask a question, you ask a question. And my answer to your question is,” Zanthor leaned forward, “What’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

He nodded. “Every night has ended in… a draw, more or less. You might’ve even won that first night if you had tried. Why are you out here every night? What do you stand to gain?”

“It’s my job.” Gregor’s head tilted to the side. “I found an assassin sneaking out in the dead of night. So long as Ashe is here it is my duty to do what I can to protect her, and as she is a guest of this castle, the castle as well.”

“Hm.” Zanthor narrowed his eyes. “Your turn.”

Gregor leaned his head back, lost in thought for a moment. “Well… Why are you sneaking out at night? What are you up to?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one.” He placed both hands behind his head and reclined. “There’s someone that I - and my brother - thought the kingdom could do without. Not to mention I thought I’d grab a snack or something, it’s miserable staying up in that tower all day. And then you keep getting in the way, so that’s not exactly been doing well. Next… how did you, a twenty-something year old foreigner become Captain of the Meathian Guard?”

“How do you know I’m a foreigner?”

Zanthor rolled his eyes. “Do you have to question all of my questions? Between your little ensemble it’s easy to see that Ashe is the only actual Meathian. Her tattoos, her build, her eyes. Your skin is too dark to come from Meathe, and you don’t speak with a Meathian accent.”

“So the accent, then. You can barely see my skin beneath my armor.”

The shadow didn’t reply, one eyebrow raised.

“When the King of Meathe was still around, Ashe ran away from home. She went adventuring for a few years, and that’s how she met me, and Markus, and Inien, and a few other friends that are taking care of the kingdom while we’re spending time here. When the King died, she headed back to fulfill her role as Princess even though she really, really didn’t want to.

“Even though Ashe knew we’d probably want to keep travelling and exploring, she asked if we’d help her in figuring out how the heck to run a country. Everyone agreed, for some reason or another.”

“And you were just… made Captain of the Guard? On the spot?” Zanthor raised his other eyebrow.

“She didn’t like the old one, and she trusted me, so… yeah. I mean, we fight about things sometimes but I love her like a sister and it’s great that we can all still do things together. All the ins and outs of royalty are really hard to get used to, though.” His eyes widened. “Oh, that’s something I wanted to ask, but Ashe wasn’t sure of the answer, either. Um. What’s the deal with your King?”

Zanthor’s expression flickered. “What do you mean?”

“Back home, even though Ashe doesn’t really like her father there are still paintings and stuff hung up, people mention him occasionally, that kind of thing. Here, no one mentions the last King of Onorhant, or even just his name. And you looked like you wanted to strangle me for a moment for bringing it up.” He frowned. “Also, how old are you? I thought there’d be a King here by now, not a Prince.”

“In Meathe, you don’t become King or Queen until married, correct?” At Gregor’s nod, Zanthor continued, “In most other kingdoms, you’re crowned either at the death of the monarch, or at age eighteen. Here, it’s twenty-one. There’s a Council in charge until the Prince comes of age - as we’re twenty right now - and meanwhile he is made to study and deal with the lesser or diplomatic duties of the country, which is why he met with Ashe instead of the Council.”

He paused. “The King… I wouldn’t say the King was a bad ruler. But he was a jerk and an ass and I’m glad he’s dead. He had no kids of his own, so he decided to take in a friend’s orphan and try and put him next in line anyway. If - if Zal had been raised royalty he’d probably be as much of an ass but as it stands, we both hate King Xin more than any rival kingdom.”

A long silence hung in the air as the duo sat there, Zanthor seeming as though there was something more he wanted to say. Eventually he glanced up at Gregor, a sudden look in his eyes as though he was very, very tired. “Zal. Me. Do you believe us? What do you think? Of all of this?”

Gregor paused. “I’m… not sure whether to trust you. If I could have definitive proof - the two of you together, or something - it’d be close. You _insist_ on fighting me, you keep a secret from everyone, you sneak out in the middle of the night to kill a resident of your own _kingdom_.” Gregor’s mouth set into a hard line. “It’s deceptive and I don’t understand it.”

The shadow leapt to his feet, staring down at Gregor with a cold, familiar gaze. “You don’t have to understand it. Sometimes that’s just how these things are.”

With a flicker of silver, something sharp embedded itself in the stone, inches from Gregor’s face. He flinched and jumped aside, heart leaping into his throat, before immediately grasping for his head and checking for wounds. Finding none, his gaze landed back where Zanthor had been a second ago.

The dagger, silver blade shining in the moonlight, stuck out from the wall. A cord wrapped around its handle, and holding a scrap of paper to the grip of it. Gregor, hand nearly shaking, reached out and slowly slipped it out from the cord’s grasp.

The letters were sharp and precise, like a sword’s slice, and the words vied to cut as deep: “ _Xin said once, ‘the darkest deeds must be done to keep the light shining the brightest’. Corrupt courts, mistrials - or a poison-tipped dagger? Which side is true justice?”_


	6. Wisteria

They found him the next morning, collapsed in his parlor. His tea, now long cold, spilled out across the plush, embroidered rug. A notation, half-scrawled, rested on the table he had once sat before, leading into a missive that would never be finished: “ _ I regret” _ .

Considering the ever-strange habits of the long-haired Zeke, Head of Law, a mismade drink or unnoticed illness were not out of the question. Yet whispers still filled the halls, from maid to servant to chef to guard, carrying with them hints of suspicion. Of poison. Of  _ assassination. _

“It’s a shame,” Prince Zalvetta said at breakfast that morning, tone low like a whisper of wind. “But I suppose these things happen. Considering the coronation in the coming spring, does a new Head  _ really _ need to be picked?”

“We’ll see,” murmured Horaven behind him. “It depends what the other two say.”

“Two to convince is easier than three,” he replied with the slightest smile. “And we all know Zeke disagreed with them more times than he agreed.”

Horaven remained silent.

As everyone gradually filtered out of the dining hall, Gregor felt eyes on him. His own gaze darted around the room before finally finding the source - Zalvetta.

His eyes, piercing hazel and the thinnest of dark circles beneath them, seemed to be considering him. Brows low, his stare locked with Gregor’s, even beneath his visor. A long moment seemed to pass between them, the clamor of the world around them growing dim.

And then, with a toss of his braid, the Prince turned and strode from the room.

Gregor felt lost.

\---

As the shadow’s feet impacted the ground, the figure paused mid-crouch, a look of inquisition growing on his face. He stared down at the item on the grass, then straightened and looked up at the man across the courtyard. He took a couple steps forward.

“Glad I didn’t get caught with that, huh?” Gregor remarked in a way that sounded almost nonchalant.

Wordlessly Zanthor picked up the dagger and slung it back onto his belt. He glanced at it again, as if checking it was still there, before reaching for a pocket and drawing something from it.

“I thought,” he said as the slightest smile found its way to his lips, “we’d try a different method of combat tonight.” He held out a deck of cards, the backs painted silver and gold.

Gregor’s eyes widened beneath his visor, and he tilted his head some. “I… don’t know that many card games.”

“How about Lost Lamb? Everyone knows how to play that game.” Zanthor dropped to the grass. The cards began flying between his fingers as he shuffled with practiced ease.

“I’ve never heard of it.” The Captain awkwardly slunk to the ground, then shuffled forward a bit until he was only a couple feet away from Zanthor. His bow and glaive each lay beside him, and after a moment’s consideration, he raised his visor from his eyes.

“I think they call it ‘Go Fish’ in other countries?” He began dealing cards between them. “I keep waking up sore. I figured today we’d have a bit of a break.”

“I know Go Fish.” Gregor picked up his hand and set two cards aside, then drew two more as across from him Zanthor did the same. “And it’s not because you were missing your dagger?”

“Do you have any twos?” He continued on, as if he hadn’t heard. Yet a moment later, in the smallest voice, he added, “Thanks.”

“Go fish.” The Captain drew a card. “Do you have any fours?”

“Sheep dog.” And then, at the confused look Gregor gave him, “Take a card. Go fish.”

“Oh!” He took a card, and set aside a pair of sixes. “So, about last night...”

“What about last night?”

“You - you killed a government official! Of your own - ”

“If you knew,” Zanthor said as he glanced up at him, “exactly what Zeke had been up to, you wouldn’t protest. He was  _ corrupt _ . Dao is also corrupt, but he does his job so well no one cares. Aces?”

Gregor passed him an ace, and he set them aside. “Still,” Gregor protested. “ _ Why _ not go to court, or at least make the evidence known?”

“Dozens upon dozens of reasons, the least of which being exactly how it would look to challenge him months before coronation. Fives?” The Captain shook his head, and Zanthor drew a card. “I might not’ve liked him, but plenty of people did. You’d be surprised how much of Onorhian politics is the public’s opinion.” His voice dropped lower. “Plus, the bastard and his stupid lilies killed Snookums.”

“Huh. I don’t understand politics much, yeah. Do you have any threes?” His opponent shook his head and Gregor also drew a card. He set aside another pair. “Do… people not like you? Or the Prince, rather?”

Zanthor smiled thinly, eyes locked on the cards in his hand. “The King said, when he announced the new Prince, that if anyone had a problem with his decree they could duel him. Sevens?”

“And? Oh, uh, go fish.”

He took a card, and put aside a pair of sevens. “There were a dozen challengers by sunset. Sixes?”

“Go fish.” Gregor leaned forward a bit, looking the shadow up and down. “And how do you fit in?”

“What do you mean?”

“How exactly did the Prince’s  _ secret twin brother  _ remain a secret for over a decade, only to be discovered by chance by the guard of a visiting country in the middle of the night? Oh, and do you have any twos?”

Zanthor shook his head. “You’d be surprised. Usually the guard on watch is one of the least observant, tired if not asleep on their feet. Either they don’t notice, or they know what should happen if they were to tell. Mostly the first.”

Gregor tilted his head to the side. “Then… why me?”

“You’re a foreigner. Either no one believes you, or you don’t get the chance to tell anyone before you go back to Meathe. You could’ve told someone by now and you haven’t. Why not have a little fun?” He moved a couple cards in his hand around. “Got any threes?”

Cards, pair-by-pair, fell to the grass. The duo played into the night and, with the Ace of Clubs in one hand and the Ace of Spades in the other, came to a draw.

Instead of his usual theatrics, Zanthor collected his deck, gave the cards a good shuffle, nodded to Gregor, and made his way back into the castle.

For the rest of the night, the Captain stood there, staring up at the shining stars in the midnight sky and feeling distinctly lonely.


	7. Cobalt

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”

“Hm?” Inien’s voice jolted Gregor out of his stupor. “What’s sad?”

“We’ll be going home in a couple days. You’ll be leaving behind all the friends you’ve made.” She stood up from beside the poppy herb and slid some into a pouch.

“I mean, I’ve been training with some of the guards - and while I’d call Kyrlos  _ nice _ I wouldn’t exactly call him a - “

“Not that.” The witch held out the latest bag of poppy and looked him in the eye. “You keep taking the night shift, despite pointedly avoiding it back home and needing to nap every afternoon. Whenever you’re around, you seem distracted. You used to  _ always _ be devoted to your job.”

“I’m devoted to my job,” he protested.

At once, Inien’s amber gaze seemed piercing - as though she could suddenly see through him, and he was nothing but a crystal-clear pane of glass.

“Whether they’re your friend or something more,” she said, “ _ talk _ to them. You might not get the chance again. Exchange letters during trades, or arrange visits. Just - goddamn  _ communicate. _ ”

“Coming from you, that’s rich.”

Inien’s cheeks tinged red. “I - you shut up, Gregor Hartway. Haven’t you ever heard ‘do as I say, not as I do’?”

“A rule to live by, in your case.” He smiled. 

Her brow furrowed and she  _ glared _ . “Take your stupid poppy and get the fuck out of my garden.” 

Gregor took the bag from her hand, slid it into his pack, bowed to her, and took his leave.

She watched him go, the red failing to fade from her cheeks.

\---

When Gregor emerged from his room the next morning - having spent the night playing chess with his odd companion and, of course, ending in a stalemate - he found himself immediately standing face-to-face with one of the castle’s many guards. The guard saluted.

“The Prince requests you attend a brief meeting with him,” the guard reported. “He asks that you visit his quarters as soon as you are ready.”

The captain nodded back, looking somewhat uncertain beneath his helmet. “Did… did he say why?”

The guard shook his head.

“Thank you,” Gregor said, before sliding past the guard - letting the door swing shut behind him - and taking off down the hall.

Each step he took felt heavy. The hall seemed to stretch endlessly before him as he pondered what it was, exactly, the Prince wanted. Threats, lies, promises; each seemed equally likely, considering how cold he had been in the past.

_ Not that first day - not when we went for the tour together. But since I met Zanthor, he hasn’t exactly seemed happy about anything. _

Before he knew it, Gregor found himself at the doors to the Prince’s bedchamber. The guards regarded him for a moment, and the one on the right nodded. “His Highness has been expecting you.” Together, they drew the doors open.

The Prince, in his usual attire, was relaxing on the edge of the bed. He looked over to Gregor, a smile sliding across his face that seemed neither warm nor welcoming, and gestured him in. As the captain stepped into the room, the doors closed behind him, and the two were left alone.

“I’m sorry there’s no table or anything. I just wanted us to have a quick talk.”

Gregor felt his mouth go dry, but trundled forward until he stood beside the Prince. “How are you, Your Highness?”

“I’m fine,” Zalvetta replied, though the look in his eyes seemed to indicate otherwise. It was that same look as before - cold, calm, oddly distant. It was only then that Gregor noticed exactly what it was that was so off about the Prince’s gaze; it was foreign, as though the Prince himself was unused to it.

_ Threats, lies, promises, _ Gregor repeated to himself, as though it were some sort of answer. He paused in sudden realization, reaching one hand to his helmet and pulling away his visor.

Something -  _ a smile? _ \- flickered across the Prince’s face for an instant, though his composure returned just as quickly.

“I have a simple request. The Full Moon Festival is tonight, and a mutual…  _ friend _ of ours was wondering if you planned to attend.” At the word ‘friend’ his gaze grew hard.

“Is that it?”

Zalvetta’s expression remained unchanged.

“Yes, I was. Ashe and Markus both sounded excited, and it seems like a lot of fun.”

The Prince’s mouth tightened into a line as he closed his eyes. “You’re going to be leaving soon, captain. You should consider what happens after that.”

He gestured to the door. Quiet and confused, Gregor turned to leave.

The captain turned for but a moment to sneak a glance at the Prince behind him, only to be met with the piercing glare of hazel eyes.


	8. Flame

All at once, it was evening, and the grounds were busy with the hustle and bustle of festival goers. Stalls were set up around the castle, servants carried decorations to waiting hands, and torches were placed and lit wherever they could fit them in wait of the coming darkness.

Gregor, for what felt like the first time in forever, was out of his armor.

Unless a favor was called in - or bribery, a different means to the same ends - it was unlikely that one would be off guard shift on the night of a festival. The same as at home. Dozens of shifts, patrols, and stations, rotated out every couple hours so everyone could enjoy what the celebration had to offer. Still, it was as tiring a night as any, if not moreso - which was  _ exactly _ why it was so strange that his name hadn’t been on the list.

He had checked - several times - and yet it seemed he had not been scheduled the night of the festival. Considering this all involved the Prince who, at the very least, held sway over Horaven, this should not have been much of a surprise.

Gregor wandered for a while, taking in all there was to see. New, strange foods he’d never heard of - “crescent cakes” were the apparent festival favorite - seemed to be on display every five feet. Booths and games were scattered everywhere else, some fun and free while others boasted prizes, or spectacles behind closed doors or heavy curtains. Everyone, be them young or old, attendee or staff, seemed like they were having the times of their lives.

_ I’ll relax a bit for tonight, _ he decided.  _ What’s the fun of a festival if you can’t try the food? _

Someone bumped into him.

Immediately he turned, apologies springing to his lips, only to pause when he caught sight of the figure. They wore clothing so dark that even with the dying sun and endless torches casting light upon them, they seemed to flicker and waver with the shadows. The figure moved, some of their outfit catching the light and shining silver for but a moment, and Gregor instantly relaxed.

“Surprised you could find me in a crowd like this.”

Zanthor shrugged. “Only took a few minutes. You looked awestruck, and besides, I’d know those brown eyes anywhere.”

He beamed. “This place is neat! I’ve been to plenty of festivals and fairs, sure, but there’s nothing like a new one! Not to mention how beautiful it is at night like this.”

His companion nodded. “There wasn’t a chance for one last year, so it seems everyone wanted to make up for it this year.”

Gregor tilted his head. “What happened last year?”

“The King died a week before the festival. Everything that had been in preparations for months had to be used for the feast and funeral and all that instead.” He huffed. “He always loved the Full Moon Festival, too.”

“So… what exactly happened? To the King, I mean.”

Zanthor smiled humorlessly. “An assassin in the night.” At Gregor’s look, he clarified, “Not me.”

“I didn't mean to - “

“He killed the assassin, and somehow fell out the window. A fitting end, in some respect.”

“‘Fitting’?"

Zanthor shrugged. “It's no secret I dislike him, and for good reason. Yet he was powerful and loved by the kingdom, so Zal seems to take his style on when he's uncertain of what he's doing.”

“What do you mean?” Gregor raised an eyebrow.

“The talk you had with him earlier. He was calm and cold, wasn't he? Endlessly elusive, that kinda thing?”

Slowly, the Captain nodded.

“That's what Xin was like. Infuriating as hell.”

An uneasy silence hung in the air.

“I - I didn't mean to make this so depressing. It's a festival, let's celebrate.” Gregor grabbed his companion’s wrist, suddenly all smiles. “Come on, there are a ton of games to play and snacks to eat. I've never had a crescent cake before!”

“They're good.” Zanthor grinned back as the slightest red tinged his cheeks, glad his face couldn't be seen from beneath his hood. “It’s kinda strange that we have ‘crescent cakes’ during the ‘Full Moon’ Festival, though.”

“Isn't it?”

They approached the nearest crescent cake booth, one of many scattered across the grounds. A young woman, looking bored, waited amidst the rows of pastries. She ran her right hand through her hair and along the streaks of indigo that gave her brown hair a slightly darker hue, then leaned further onto the table as she looked the two newcomers up and down.

“What can I get you?” she said, voice nearly as sugary sweet as the cakes behind her.

The duo looked at the varieties on display - each crescent cake was a medium-sized treat of folded dough. Holes were left open as, once baked, they resembled the moon’s craters, and then they were filled with any number of fillings.

Gregor suppressed a grin as he saw Zanthor’s gaze seemingly land on the chocolate-filled and stay there, though his own was soon drawn to a sign nearby.

“What’s ‘Meathian-style’?” he asked the woman.

She glanced to the sign, then back to him. “Filled with seafood that was brought in by the Princess’ lot. It’s the first year we’re offering it, but we don’t have much.”

The Captain opened his mouth, half tempted to order one, before he caught sight of the price.  _ Considering how much this stuff would cost, even back home… still, it would’ve been nice to try it. _

Beside him, Zanthor slid a set of coins onto the counter. “Two Meathian-style and a chocolate.”

The woman grabbed napkins from beside the unbaked “new-moon” style and pulled two Meathian-style from their shelf, laying them on the counter. A moment later, she added the chocolate. “Pleasure doing business,” she said as she slid the coins into the money pouch at her side.

Zanthor lifted one of the Meathian-styles and held it out to Gregor. “You know you want it.”

“I - um.” Gregor carefully took it from his grasp, looking it over as his companion picked up his own treats. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I invited you, after all.” The cloaked figure took a bite of each cake, shoulders slouching considerably a moment later. “ _ So _ good.”

The Captain took a bite of his own, a look of surprise flickering across his face at the taste.  _ The sweetness of the cake goes so well with the saltiness of the seafood - what’s this, seaweed and something else? I’ve never been able to figure out the difference between fish that well. _

“Wanna play a couple games or something? We have time until the fireworks.” Zanthor gestured to the rest of the fair with one pastry-filled hand. “I should warn you, though, I have the aim of an expert.”

“Is that a challenge?” Gregor caught the briefest glance of his companion’s toothy grin from beneath his hood. “ _ You’re on. _ ”

“Good, because I  _ never _ lose.” Zanthor took a step forward, only to pause and take another bite from the treat in his right hand. “We can play right after I finish these cakes.”

\---

“I cannot believe,” the boy spoke slowly, as if doubting his own words, “that I  _ lost. _ ”

“You may have the aim  _ of _ an expert, but I  _ am _ an expert,” Gregor grinned as his companion sulked sullenly beneath his hood. The man running the dart-throwing stall handed him his prize - a thin stick of rock candy.

Zanthor continued to grumble discontentedly. Gregor leaned over, slightly and held out the candy to him. Zanthor raised an eyebrow. “A pity prize?”

“No, see, I won it  _ for _ you.” The Captain continued beaming. “So now we’re both happy.”

The blond, slowly, took the candy from him, turning it over in his hands a couple times, before sliding it into his jacket. Gregor was fairly certain he was smiling.

“The fireworks are going to start soon,” Zanthor said abruptly. “There’s a perfect spot to watch them near the front of the castle.

Together, the duo wove their way through the bustling crowds. It was much busier now than it had been when Gregor had first arrived at the festivities, people pouring out of the castle and setting their eyes to the skies as the moon claimed its place at the sky’s peak.

Zanthor led them to a spot by the training grounds, left surprisingly abandoned so far from the festival’s attractions. He pointed to the stars above the grounds. “That’s always about where they are. Near the fox and hare in the midnight sky.”

Behind them a cheer rang out as, in the distance, the small sparks of fireworks began their ascent.

Gregor followed Zanthor’s arm to the sky, then turned to look at his companion as he reached one hand up to the hood of his cloak and drew it back. The moonlight turned his hair from straw to gold and his eyes seemed alight with fire for but a moment - yet something seemed  _ different  _ about his expression. He held neither the tenacity of the Prince, or the ferocity of his twin. Instead, he seemed oddly solemn; sad, lonely, regretful.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, tone low and words almost lost to the wind. Gregor opened his mouth, ready to ask what or who or why, but stopped as the blond finally raised his hazel eyes to meet the captain’s own. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “For putting you through all this. And for being someone I wasn’t.”

Zalvetta darted forward and pressed his lips gently to Gregor’s forehead. A moment later the Prince was gone, lost to the shadows around the castle that now danced in time with the light flickering above.

Normally, Gregor would’ve been with his friends, watching the fireworks as they rained down in the midnight sky - talking about how sad it was that Kyr couldn’t make it, how they were leaving so soon already, how lovely the festival was.

But instead he stood there, heat in his cheeks and heart beating fast, and wondering exactly what he was supposed to do now.


	9. Charcoal

It was so familiar by now, the routine for a night like this one. He ducked into the closet, reaching behind the rows of clothes until his outstretched hand found what it was looking for. A quick  _ click _ and the trapdoor swung open, revealing a small alcove in the wall. Within - the hole itself perhaps large enough for him to fit if he crouched - was nothing more than a simple, worn, wooden chest. Grasping the handles on either side, he pulled the chest from the hole.

He never bothered with a lock. No one, not the servants or tailors or even Horaven, had found the hidden latch and the contents that lay within his secret hiding spot. He knew that this had been the King’s hideaway, once, back when it had still been the King’s room, though by the time he’d found it the entire thing was coated in dust. Still, it was a gift that Xin had left for him.

He resisted a shudder. The words “Xin” and “gift” did not belong in the same sentence.

Zalvetta pulled the lid off the chest and removed its contents. He laid each item out, gently and placed them one-by-one in a row beside him, then slid the chest aside and went down the row.

He shed his pajamas, replacing them with darker garb. First came the long-sleeved attire in shades of black and grey to match the shadows, then gloves, boots, and belt. He wrapped the cloak around his neck, pulling the hood up, and immediately relaxed at the familiar weight as it covered his hair.

“Hair like straw,” he grumbled to himself, pulling the hood back down for an instant so he could tie and then pin his hair up. It wasn’t a skilled attempt, by any means - he was sure Moren would have a fit were he to see - but it got the job done.

Each of the small vials in he slung onto the belt, tying them tightly and expertly, frowning as he noticed a single starting to tinge a shade of murky orange. “I’ll have to stop by the garden later,” he mused as finished with the last. “Let’s hope the Meathian herbalist keeps up the same stock Telvillian did.”

The Prince tightened the latches on his boots, adjusted his belt, and finally reached for the last objects he’d laid out. The cool metal, felt even through his gloves, made him give a small smile. He sheathed each of them, and, finally, paused. As he so often did, he eyed the single remaining item in the chest. His fingers skimmed its surface, before he pulled back and replaced the lid of the chest.

He nodded to himself and stepped towards the window. He slid it open, the night’s gentle breeze sweeping past him and throughout the bedroom. A map of the castle flickered through his mind, planned routes through empty halls and across rooftops tracing its way across what little he could see through the darkness.

Zalvetta placed one hand on the windowsill, and dropped over the edge, now clinging to the castle’s wall just beneath his bedroom window. He glanced to the ground, tensed, and let go.

Mere moments after his feet hit the ground there was a  _ twang _ like a bowstring. He felt a tug on one arm as it held fast to the bricks behind him. His heart leapt into his throat, and he reached with one hand to his belt, sliding it around a dagger’s hilt and peering into the darkness.  _ An assassin? _

From the shadows he could make out a figure - light glinted off their armor, face hidden beneath their visor.  _ An assassin wouldn’t wear such armor. It’s - of the Meathian Guard? _

He calmed down some at that, though heat stayed in his cheeks and his heart still beat fast.  _ It must be whoever Horaven put on duty tonight. They shot me. Without injuring me. On purpose. In the dead of night… _

_...Fuck. _

“Who are you?” The soldier demanded as he slid another arrow onto his bowstring and pulled it back. His voice was familiar as it rung out across the courtyard, and he took a couple steps closer, no doubt trying not his best to seem intimidating. “And what are you doing here?”

Zalvetta felt the hood of his cloak fall back some as he turned to face them head-on. The figure seemed to freeze, then stammered, "I - I'm so sorry, your - ah, er, I was out on - I just - “ The soldier paused, then leaned closer. “Why are you sneaking around in dark clothing in the dead of night?"

With his free hand, Zalvetta removed his hood. Options ran through his head - excuses, demands, actions, decisions. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “if you unpin me from this wall.”

“How do I know you won’t run away?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve seen my face.”

“...Alright.” The soldier took a few steps forward and, leaning perhaps a bit too close for the Prince’s liking, drew the arrow from his sleeve with a hard tug. Zalvetta snuck him a glare as he adjusted his cloak.

“What do you have on your belt?” It wasn’t a demanding tone this time - it was surprise, confusion, the blossoming buds of suspicion. The blond resisted the urge to roll his eyes, again.

Colored liquid in vials wasn’t too terribly strange, was it? “Alcohol.”

Zal could feel the look of scrutiny through the visor. “There’s no alcohol I know of that’s that color - and trust me, Ashe loves her drinks.”

_ Damn you, Princess _ . He averted his gaze.  _ Options, options… _

“So you sneak out of your room in the dead of night, dressed like that, with a dozen vials of poison on your belt? What, did you invite her here just so you could - “

A million words sprang to mind. Insults and excuses most prominent among them.

“It’s a hobby.” The shadow looked up at him, hazel eyes hopefully locking with the soldier’s through his visor. He felt fury growing in his chest. “And before you keep going on with the accusations, I promised I’d tell you, so the truth is…”

A silence followed. He took a breath, entirely uncertain of what he was even going to say.

“...I’m the Prince’s twin brother.”

_ Wow am I an idiot. _

“Forgive me for not believing you.”

_ And it’ll certainly say  _ something  _ if I can convince him. _

“It’s true.” The boy frowned and crossed his arms. “He didn't want you to know - he didn't want you to know that he had someone who goes out and, well... One of us stays in his room all day. He deals with court and all that other bullshit and I get to go out and do the fun work. Look, each aristocrat has their favorite weapon, be it language or title or person. What better way to get things done?”

“And you invited the Princess here because - “

“My brother invited the Princess,” he interrupted with a glare, “to negotiate his damn trade agreements. He loves potatoes and lobster and all that other rich Meathian food, what can I say? Besides, how would it look if the princess of another nation was murdered while she was a guest at the castle?”

_ I’m honestly surprised this seems to be working. At all. Tip one for being your own secret twin brother: make fun of yourself. _

The soldier’s shoulders slouched, though he seemed no less deterred as he continued, “So if I were to go up to the tower, you’re saying the Prince will be in his bed, fast asleep?”

Each of the soldier’s words seemed to pound in his head like a ringing bell, and each note echoed as it drew forth fury. Who was  _ this man _ to  _ scold him? _ To question him, to get in his  _ way?  _ He was the  _ Prince _ , dammit, and even if he couldn’t tell the truth, he’d be damned if he couldn’t teach him a  _ lesson _ .

Zalvetta looked up at him suddenly, smile sharp and a devious look in his eyes. “Fight me.”

“I - what?” That seemed to truly take him off guard.

“Fight me,” the Prince repeated. “If I win, you can’t tell anybody.”

Still, the man did not seem swayed. “And if I win?”

“Then I go back upstairs and you can tell whoever you feel like, though whether they believe you or not…”

The soldier watched the blond for another long moment. “Fight here, in the courtyard? Or the training grounds?”

“Let’s do the training grounds. Less chance of getting caught.” He gestured forward with one hand, map already drawn in his mind. The weight of his daggers, though still in their sheaths, seemed to rest in his hands. “C’mon. Normally I’d take the rooftops but I guess we’ll have to get there the slow way.”

“What should I call you?”

_ That’s a good question. How did that brat used to mispronounce my name…? _

At the memory, the blond’s mouth twitched, barely resisting a smile. “How… how about an old nickname? ‘Zanthor’.”

“Alright,  _ Zanthor. _ ” He heard the words slip from the soldier’s lips, and be it intentional or not, Zal felt his jaw clench as his teeth ground against each other.  _ Is he  _ mocking  _ me now? _

He sprinted for the castle, determined to beat the soldier there. At best, he’d get lost in the building’s winding halls, and Zalvetta would win by forfeit - not the most honorable of victories, perhaps, but he was an assassin, and an assassin was anything but honorable.

Even if a Prince was.

Sure enough, the halls were empty. He’d long since learned that the usual night watchman often took a break around now to visit the kitchen and flirt with the night shift’s chef - though stray whispers and occasional gossip seemed to indicate that wasn’t going so well. Still, the watchman was nothing if not persistent, and Zal would continue to have no problem with it so long as it continued gifting him the crystal-clear opportunity.

The last practice had likely only ended an hour or so ago - the torches around the practice ground were still alight, though by now they were beginning to burn low. Still, it would do for however long the bout would take. _ Five minutes at the very most, _ he guessed.  _ If he’s smart about it, and particularly skilled. I wouldn’t expect it. _

He rested one hand on his favored dagger, and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guard finally arrived. By then, Zal’s breath had regained its even tempo, and the fire in his chest - both metaphorical and metaphysical - had died some. The soldier carefully picked a weapon from the racks, gaze moving away from Zal for a moment to watch the polearm as he gave it a gentle swing.

“How likely is it, exactly, that the King would just  _ happen  _ to have identical twin sons?”

Like a spark in a powderkeg the fire returned, tenfold and then some. The grip on his dagger tightened, and he knew if he were to move his hand away the engravings would be marked on his palm.  _ This idiot come to our country but doesn’t even know  _ that? _ I bet he couldn’t even  _ name  _ the King. _

With his free hand, he tossed the other dagger in the air, then caught it, making sure the dying torchlight danced along its blade. He clicked his tongue derisively. “You should do your research before you come to a foreign land.”

The soldier clambered over the fence, and Zal waited. The second his feet hit the sand, the Prince was upon him, weapons in each hand and thinnest of smiles on his face.

“Wh - no fair! No one said start!” The man narrowly sidestepped the blow, using his polearm to bat the tiny assassin back. 

“You enter the ring, you’re signed up for combat.” He retorted plainly, skidding back a safe distance on light feet. “All in all, not bad. You’re one of the first to catch up with me.” He paused, arms crossed over his chest and daggers unsheathed as he waited to see if the soldier would make a move. He fumbled with the latch of his cloak in the darkness for a moment before it fluttered to the ground behind him. He arched an eyebrow. “What’s with the polearm?”

“It’s a glaive.” The guard steadied himself, grasping his own weapon firmly and falling into a ready stance. “Good for range and riding horseback. Works well up-close, too, as I’m sure the Prince saw earlier.”

“I’m sure he did.”  _ Saw earlier? Who would I have seen - _

No matter. He dove into combat once more, surprised by his opponent’s expert response to his blows, and his own resolve to stay standing. He tumbled, fumbled, and fell. He’d missed striking the guard by a mere hair’s breadth. “Why are you so persistent?” the guard remarked in a tone with a near-twinge of anger to it. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“And then the fight will be over.” He fought to keep his own anger out of his voice.  _ Soon. Soon. _

More words were exchanged, though he barely heard them. He painted and repainted the battlefield in his mind, drew and redrew his opportunities. Something simple, maybe. His opponent favored a two-handed weapon - he couldn’t handle two strikes at once.

He threw one dagger, then ducked and rolled to grab the remaining dagger from the sand and threw it, too. Zalvetta would be swift to admit he was proud of himself. The guard hit the ground, then his glaive, kneeling on one knee as he put his helmeted head in his hands.

Zal took a few steps forward until he stood before the soldier, the wear and tear of the fight catching up to him. He pressed one finger to his opponent’s nose, ignoring the own red in his cheeks and the barest of embers still burning in his chest. His voice came low, words stolen by his own heavy breath. “Be glad this isn’t a real battlefield, or you’d be long dead.”

_ A mocking end, though a challenge would have been nice. Maybe if he improves a bit.  _ He abandoned the battlefield, content that his opponent had learned his lesson. Something still nagged at the back of his mind.  _ A shame I won’t see him tomorrow. _


	10. Azure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and death.

The Prince laid back on the blankets, ruffled and unkempt beneath him. His gaze continued to wander, tracing the patterns of the canopy above him as they had been for the past half-hour or more. His tongue was pressed to his teeth, mouth half-open, blinking his hazel eyes lazily. Every so often, nearly startling himself mid-thought, he would let out a single derisive  _ click _ .

A sharp knock sounded at the door and he sat up abruptly, turning his head away the rays of sunlight now peeking through the window as the heavy oak swung open.

Horaven stepped in, mouth open as though he were about to say something, but paused when he saw the Prince already looking at him.

“You're awake,” he finally said after a moment. His brow furrowed. “Have you been awake all night?”

“No?”

Horaven looked Zal up and down, then at the bed he lay upon. He let the Prince’s answer hang in the air for an instant longer, then replied, “If you say so.”

The Prince leapt off the bed, feet landing gently on the soft carpet, before darting into the closet and immediately inspecting the clothes within.

The Captain watched him, face a mask and hands clasped behind his back. As Zal lifted a pair of metal boots from a shelf, the Captain spoke up. “So how went your little midnight escapade last night?”

Zal visibly flinched, grip loosening on the boots. A moment later he swore violently as one landed heel-first on the top of his bare foot, then turned to stare at Horaven, glaring.

“That language is hardly suited for a Prince,” Horaven noted.

“You did that on purpose,” Zal spat back, leaning over to retrieve the boots from the floor with his left hand as he ran the other over the spot that had been struck. “How did you know I was out last night?”

“If I didn't before, I know now.” Horaven smiled and Zal’s glare deepened. “Considering you've done it before, I've found it necessary to check on you in the night occasionally.”

“Hmph.” The blond slid a boot on. “It went well, I'll have you know.”

“Did it? Is Zeke going to find dye in his pond again? Or will someone be reporting yet another threatening letter?”

The Prince kept his mouth closed, pressed hard in a line as he continued getting dressed.

As he emerged from the closet, finishing tying his belt around his waist, his gaze was averted from the Captain’s own. “Horaven,” he said finally. “Is it only the Meathian captain that uses a glaive?”

The Captain tipped one head to the side - Zal resisted the urge to comment something about “guard dogs” - in thought, then nodded. “Of the visiting Meathians, certainly. Of our own, there are one or two who favor it. Why?”

Zal opened his mouth, as if to say something, then thought better of it and collapsed face-first against the bed. There was a muffled groan.

The look of confusion on Horaven’s face slowly shifted to one of amusement. “I don’t suppose…”

“ _ No _ ,” the bed protested. “No, there is no way that I, crown prince of Onorhant, have a crush on the Captain of the Guard of a neighboring kingdom and you are to never bring it up again.”

“Zalvetta, I have known you many years, and that is perhaps one of the most unconvincing lies I have ever heard.” He raised both eyebrows, smile growing slightly wider. “And we both know I cannot obey that instruction.”

The blond raised his head from the bed, turning to glare at Horaven as he did so. “Then at least don’t tell anyone. I just - gah, I am so infuriated with myself right now.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. 

“Time for breakfast,” the captain announced. “That’d be Moren.”

“Thankfully.” Zal ran a hand through his somewhat-tangled hair, then made to straighten out his now-slightly-ruffled attire as Horaven opened the door and the two stepped into the hall. Moren took his place behind the Prince, mumbling a brief acknowledgement as they slowly began walking.

“So, what do you plan to do about it?”

Zal glanced to Horaven, wincing slightly as Moren tugged especially hard on a knot in his hair. “What  _ is _ there to do about it? Horaven, I have dug myself a  _ hole. _ ”

“A hole,” Horaven echoed with an eyebrow raise.

“I… didn’t know how to get out of it without getting  _ someone _ in trouble. So I convinced him I have a twin brother.”

The captain paused in his step. Zal stopped, too, and Moren nearly ran into him, grumbling under his breath as he did so.

And then Horaven started  _ laughing. _

“I swear, if you compare me to the King - “

“It’s something he would’ve done,” the captain managed through gasps. “Sometimes I cannot  _ believe _ you, Zal.”

“Neither can I.” He placed a hand to his forehead. “What am I going to do…?”

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually. I don’t know what you expected.”

Zal glared, any and all traces of humor suddenly gone from his expression. He all but spat his next words, each laced with venom. “I  _ expected _ the best friend of my adopted father to at least  _ feign  _ willingness to help me dig myself out of this interdimensional pit I have dug for myself.”

“I haven’t seen you this mad in many years,” Horaven remarked by way of response.

The Prince huffed and gestured on, the duo returning to their walk as Moren took one last frantic swipe through his hair. “See you tomorrow,” the man mumbled as they continued down the hall.

“I can’t just  _ tell  _ him, Horaven. What if he tells everyone else? Not to mention what he’d think of this whole stupid charade being a  _ lie. _ ”

“And you’re not worried about this so-called ‘secret twin brother’?” The captain raised an eyebrow again.

“Even I know that sounds ludicrous. He has no proof other than his word, but were he to tell of my midnight escapades I couldn’t  _ go on them. _ ” Zal threw out his hands.

“What is your supposed brother’s name, even?”

“‘Zanthor’.”

Horaven’s brow furrowed. “What kind of a name is ‘Zanthor’?”

“What kind of a name is ‘Zalvetta’?” He retorted. “It sounds like ‘vendetta’.”

“It’s fitting.” 

Finally, they arrived at the dining room entranceway. Zal found himself with his hand around his pendant for but a moment as the guards pulled the doors open.

Naturally, Horaven had the last word. “And how are you to keep the charade up, so he doesn’t catch on?”

The Prince narrowed his eyes, gaze darting to his companion and mouth pressed hard into a line before stepping into the room. He glanced to the Meathian Captain of the Guard, to the Princess before him, and then to the food laid across the table as he slid into his chair. As Horaven took his place beside him, Zal set his eyes low, and wondered.

\---

“That cloak,” Horaven said some time after it had been returned, the Prince still holding it clutched to his chest. “I haven’t seen it before.”

“As I said, I lost it a long while ago.” With a pointed look from the captain, the other guard - whose name Zal had long since forgotten - took his leave. “What of it?”

“I’ve known you since you came here, Zal. Ten years, and I’ve never seen it. It’s either a well-kept secret or older than your tenure.” He cocked an eyebrow. “That wouldn’t happen to be from your late-night escapades, would it?”

“Would I tell you if it was?” The blond returned the look.

Horaven, to his credit, maintained a face of unamusement. Dark brows low, he said, “I don’t suppose you’ve known where the Fangs are, then?”

“Of course not.” The lie slid from his lips with surprising ease, his focus instead set on keeping an expression that shone with disinterest. “Though I do admire someone of Xin’s line having the gall to name a dagger  _ Loyalty. _ ”

“It’s your line, by law.”

“But not by blood.”

“Zalvetta, you still act like a child.”

“Legally, I am.”

“But not for much longer. Come spring, you’ll be crowned king.”

“And I guess I can’t just call Xin ‘the King’ anymore then, can I?”

“Zal.” The captain halted, placing one heavy hand on Zalvetta’s shoulder. “In no time at all that will be  _ your _ crown, and you must find someone to wield  _ your  _ Fangs.”

“Because  _ I  _ can’t just wield them. I’m too busy  _ abiding the law _ and  _ hiring _ an assassin to  _ be _ one.” He huffed, brushing Horaven’s hand from his shoulder. His scowl deepened at the look Horaven was giving him. “As if you didn’t know already.”

He stepped away, making it a few feet before Horaven realized what he was doing and made to follow. The Prince spoke up just before rounding the corner. “I’m going to go take a nap. Wake me for dinner.”

The walk to his room was long and dull, memories of days long passed flickering through his mind. 

He could still recall that morning, called to the King’s bedchambers the second he had awoken. It had been many, many moons since the two had grown to despise each other - Xin frequently called him a delinquent and a disgrace, and Zal thought of him much the same. Yet when he found himself standing in the doorway, Xin lacked that devil-may-care look, that infuriating grin that he seemed to favor more than anything else in the world.

For the moment they stared each other down, the King seemed more honest, more transparent, than he had ever been. Amidst his usually immaculate blond hair, Zal could see the thinnest pricks of grey, a dullness to his near-golden eyes that they usually lacked. As quickly as that clarity was there, it was gone, and Xin once more had the beginnings of a grin spreading across his lips.

“It has been some time since Naisha’s passing,” he began, reaching for something at his side, “and no one more fitting has stepped forward since then. I don’t believe these have been common knowledge in recent years.”

The object he presented was nothing more than a simple, worn, wooden chest. Gripping the front, he slowly pulled the thing open with a  _ creak _ , clearly revelling in the suspense.

Two shining silver daggers waiting in their sheaths, each curved and engraved. The handles were black, a purple gem of the nation’s colors embedded within. They were, at a glance, elegant; instantly Zalvetta could feel their weight in his hands, the swiftness and ease with which they would cut through  _ air _ , let alone  _ flesh _ . They might have been older than the King - of that he had no doubt - but they were pristinely kept. If the Prince were given one word to describe them, it would have been “ _ perfect _ ”.

“These are the Fangs of the Crown.” The King seemed amused by Zalvetta’s reaction. “They are the chosen weapon of the court assassin - I believe you met Naisha once or twice when you were younger, though she was often out on business. Whoever you find to act in your stead, to silence uprisings and rebels, to out thieves and mongrels in the dead of night…

“They will deliver death at your call.  _ Loyalty _ and  _ Treachery. _ Loyal to the crown, treacherous to the law.” His gaze grew hard, and he set the box aside. “They are often kept stored away, and I have no doubt you will find them when it is time.”

“Because if anything, you won’t find yourself dying of old age, huh?” Zal murmured. The King raised an eyebrow, look of solemnity gone and smile once more dancing across his lips.

“One more thing.” Xin paused for an uncomfortably long amount of time, looking Zalvetta up and down. Zal found himself fiddling with his hair after a moment, stopping when Xin finally continued: “When I was made king, I abolished the use of the old crown. It was nearly falling apart, ugly as sin, and was uncomfortable as hell to wear.”

He placed his fingers to the pendant around his neck, the red gem in the center gleaming as it caught the light. “I never had anything made for any other member of the royal family, but there was a crown, once, for the crown prince. Here.”

Zal barely had the time to move his hands and catch the object Xin had thrown at him - a small, shining necklace to match Xin’s, only forged of silver instead of gold.

“You are dismissed.” The Prince did not quite like the look in the King’s eyes as he added, “ _ Prince _ Zalvetta.”

He was startled out of the memory as he felt his nails digging into his hand, slowly unclenching his jaw as emerged from the staircase and onto the second floor. As he passed a window he got but a glance of the ground below, and once more, he was reminded.

Emerging from the castle and into the courtyard, a gentle autumn breeze passing through the square as though he had brought it with him. A crowd was gathered near the King’s window, mumbling and whispering in hushed tones. At the front, he could see Horaven through the mass of people, shoulders weighed down and head staring at something imperceptible. A sudden, eerie silence descended on the courtyard as the crowd parted for him, though he only managed a few steps before seeing what it was they were gossiping about.

Zal froze.

The King, once tall in all but stature, lay on the garden’s simple stone. Blood pooled beneath the tranquil, broken body and Zal stared, heart making its way into his throat. Beside Xin lay a gleaming golden pendant, clasp broken and chain snapped.

“Good riddance,” the Prince heard himself mumble, voice so low his words were nearly lost to the wind. He turned on his heel, each step suddenly uneven, as the red of the King’s blood seared itself into his eyes.

Prince Zalvetta collapsed into his bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	11. Rose

When Gregor stopped to really consider it, it was strange to see the Prince.

At least, strange to see him in such a state. The captain was so used to his cold, uninterested demeanor, piercing hazel eyes that knew more than they dare share, and an unwavering resilience to do almost anything  _ but _ show compassion for Gregor. He knew why now, of course, but that didn’t scare away the slightly unsettling feeling in his chest he got when Zalvetta so much as  _ smiled _ at him.

While the Prince’s bedroom now seemed much less bare,  _ that  _ was definitely just him. Zal waved him in from the doorway, sitting with his legs crossed on the bed and looking so bright that the room itself seemed warmer. Something flickered across his face for a moment, and he suddenly seemed more somber, though the slightest smile still tried to tug at the corner of his lips.

“I said I’m sorry,” he murmured, “but only for that one thing. I’m sorry I was a jerk to you, and for lying about everything, and kissing you and then running and probably ruining your whole trip.”

Gregor had a hard time suppressing a grin. “Sounding pretty childish for a prince, there.”

Zal shrugged, keeping his gaze averted. “Yeah, well.”

“Thank you for apologizing. And, for what it’s worth, I forgive you.” He took a few steps forward and hopped onto the bed, sitting beside his friend. “But… there were totally better ways to go about that.”

Zalvetta put his head in his hands. “And you probably either hate me now or you’re leaving today anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Gregor leaned back. “What happened last night could almost be called a ‘first date’, if not any of the nights we hung out before that.”

Zal peeked out from between his fingers, eyeing him warily. “What, really? You’re just blowing past it all like that?”

“I mean… I won’t say what you did was right, but you did have some noble intentions. I respect that.” He shrugged.

“So…”

“So, yes. I will go out with you.” Gregor pressed his own lips to Zalvetta’s forehead. When he pulled back, he grinned at how bright a red the Prince was now blushing. “You’re cute when you do that.”

“I - you shut up.” The Prince huffed and averted his gaze, only for his eyes to slowly slide back to his companion a moment later. “We didn’t really meet on the best of terms.” He straightened up some and stuck a gloved hand out. “Prince Zalvetta of Onorhant, to be crowned king in the coming spring. Ugh.”

Gregor grinned, and took it. “Gregor Hartway, Captain of the Meathian Guard. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

“Likewise.” Zal smiled back. “Though you really don’t have to call me that.” He glanced to the window, and the beams of sunlight streaming in. “You should get packing. I think your Princess said she wanted to depart around noon.”

“You may be right. We can exchange letters, at least, with the new trade routes being set up.”

“And I’ve always wanted to visit Meathe…” The blond mused.

“You love potatoes and lobster and all that rich Meathian food, hm?”

Zal laughed. “I lied much less than you’d think. Now, get going. I’ll be sure to see you off.”

Gregor nodded and hurriedly made his way from the Prince’s room to his own, and though he was half-packed already, he still barely finished on time.

As he made his way outside, the Prince and Princess were conversing beside the awaiting carriage, while Inien and Markus watched on. They all turned to look at him as he arrived, bags in hand. Seconds after he set them down a nearby servant scampered off with them.

“It has been,” Zal said, “a pleasure having you all visit.”

“Thank you for having us,” Ashe bowed, and though each of their words carried a sense of formality, their tones were casual.

The Prince bowed back to Ashe, then stepped aside and pecked Gregor on the cheek. He gave a brief wave as he made his way back inside the castle. Gregor’s gaze followed him as he waved back, well aware of his friends’ eyes on him.

“What,” Markus said after a moment, “was  _ that?” _

“Oh. Um.” The captain tilted his head to the side as he turned back around. “We’re dating now. I think. That was never quite made clear.”

“You’re dating  _ the Onorhian prince? _ ” Inien muffled a laugh with her gloved hand. “How did that - was  _ he _ the friend you were keeping odd hours to see?”

“Kind of. It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got a long way home,” Ashe said as she pulled the carriage door open and hopped in.

“It’ll certainly make the hours pass by quicker,” Markus added.

Everyone followed behind Ashe and clambered in, Gregor tapping his fingers absentmindedly as he tried to figure out how to start. “Well, when we first met it maybe wasn’t on the best of terms, but now…”

“Oh, just say you’re in love already,” Inien mumbled from beside them, adjusting her hat as the sun chose that moment to strike her full in the face.

Gregor tilted one head to the side. “I’m not quite sure I’d put it that way. I mean… I love you guys, don’t I? You’re all my best friends in the whole world.” He gestured back towards the castle. “And I love Zalvetta like that, too. He might love me in a different way, but…”

The captain shrugged. “It makes us both happy.”

Markus and Ashe were both smiling, though Inien looked almost annoyed. “You’re such a sap, Gregor.”

Ashe smacked her lightly in the shoulder. “Lighten up, Inien. It’s kinda sweet.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich.” Markus added, which the witch returned with a glare.

The four leaned back in the carriage, sun slowly making its way across the sky, as they settled in for the journey back home.

Back at the castle, Zalvetta leaned against the upper floor balcony and looking out across the fields. He gaze followed the carriage as it slowly vanished from view, rock candy sticking out of his mouth, still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for joining me in this fic. What a trip it's been.


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